Hurrying to the house, Matt stepped through an unclosed breach in the mud wall that had once served for a door. The gloomy interior blinded him for a space and it was impossible for him to see any one.
"You scoundrel!" cried an impassioned voice. "Untie these ropes and let us go at once. You will save yourself trouble if you do that, and give me back that bag of pearls. There's law in this country yet, and I'll make it my business to see that it reaches you."
Gradually, as Matt's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he made out the forms of two men seated on a bench along one of the walls.
"Are you Mr. Tomlinson, of Denver?" inquired Matt, stepping toward the man who had spoken.
"My name, sir," was the haughty reply. "How long are you going to leave us here, without a mouthful of food and no water to drink? By gad, you'll suffer for this!"
"You're mistaken, Mr. Tomlinson," said the young motorist. "I'm not one of the robbers, and had nothing to do with putting you here. By a stroke of luck I have been able to recover your pearls and to find out where you were. Your car is waiting in the west road, and I am here to release you and take you to Ash Fork."
This startling news left Tomlinson speechless for a moment.
"You—you have come to release us?" he returned.
"Yes," and Matt, with an open knife in his hand, passed to the bench and began severing the cords that held Tomlinson and his chauffeur to the hard seat.
The prisoners had been in their cramped positions all night, and when the ropes fell away, so numb were their limbs that they could hardly hold themselves upright.